


Safe

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Ficlet, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft meets with Lestrade after Sherlock falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

Mycroft Holmes sighs and steeples his fingers under his chin. Greg wants to tell him to stop, cut that out, that’s Sherlock, Sherlock through and through and I can’t look at it right now without remembering I’ll never see him do that again, steeple his fingers and frown at a problem right before he leaps up and shouts “OH!” and roundly ridicules me and my entire profession for missing something that’s so painfully _obvious_. So _stop that,_ Mycroft Holmes.

But he says none of this. He merely grips the armrests of his chair as tightly as he can and clears his throat.

“How is he, Inspector?” Mycroft queries. As ever, he does not make eye contact.

_Sherlock does. Stares, in fact. Sherlock did, rather._ “He’s managing. Staying with a friend at the moment.”

“Yes, Dr. Michael Stamford.”

Greg gazes into the fireplace. If Mycroft won’t look at him, well, he won’t look at Mycroft. “I don’t think he’s going back.”

“No,” Mycroft muses. “I don’t think he is.”

There is silence. Mycroft drums his fingers on the end of his umbrella. Greg watches the embers in the fireplace peter out.

“Er,” he says, “I, er, I know you weren’t close, but...”

“I’ll cut to the point, shall I? You want to know why I called you here.”

Greg nods. Mycroft is the one squinting at the fireplace now, and Greg wonders if while his head was turned, was Mycroft watching him? Observing, deducing, like Sherlock would?

“Someone needs to stay with him, Inspector,” Mycroft says slowly. “Sherlock would...have wanted it.”

Greg’s stomach twists and his lips tighten. He nods. “Right.”

Mycroft’s eyes close briefly, and his shoulders sag. It is a terribly sad thing, and for a moment Greg feels voyeuristic, an intruder on some awful nameless sickness that he cannot comprehend. But then Mycroft straightens again, his spine stiffening and shoulders setting like an actor going into character all at once.

“You may leave,” he says, still watching the fire.

Greg nods and rises.

Mycroft watches him leave and waits until the door shuts before taking out his phone and sending one text. Four words.

_JW is safe. Proceed._


End file.
